The Perfect Guy
by Night Strider
Summary: Kenji Fujima speaks to his Perfect Guy for the last time. He has 2 choices: to pour out his feelings as farewell draws near or to remain silent and write all he wants to say in his journal. One Shot.


The Perfect Guy

Disclaimer: I don't own SD boys, Inoue does. The events that follow are not included in the original plot but enjoy anyway. (Hindi ako ang nagmamayari sa mga tauhan ng SD, si Inoue ang gumawa sa kanila. Ang mga sumusunod na pangyayari ay hindi kasama sa tunay na istorya pero magsaya ka na lang kahit papaano '---' )

Summary: Kenji Fujima speaks to his Perfect Guy for the last time. He has 2 choices: to pour out his feelings as farewell draws near or to remain silent and write all he wants to say in his journal. One Shot.

Chapter I

Setting: Kenji Fujima and the Perfect Guy. Somewhere in the Kanagawa Stadium corridor. After Shoyo lost its last match with the Perfect Guy's team.

Fujima: (Calls Perfect Guy) Hey,

Perfect Guy: (turns around) Fujima?

Fujima: You don't know how blessed I am to have played against you. (Sigh)

Perfect Guy: ... (suddenly looks lonely)

Fujima: Well, 3 years of playing against each other should at least come to an understanding, right?

Perfect Guy: Mmmmh. (nods slightly, still looking lonely)

Fujima: I wanted to tell you...

Perfect Guy: Yes?

Fujima: That you win...(you win me over! Fried fuck, why can't I say it?)

Perfect Guy: ...(gives Fujima a we-all-know-that sort of look) And?

Fujima: And that...I...I...(I love you. Motherfucking throat, why can't I say it?)

Perfect Guy: You what?

Fujima: You...you are...the Perfect Guy, (Perfect Guy For Me. Holy fuck, why can't I say it?)

Perfect Guy: To be in this team. Thanks. (smiles and pats Fujima's shoulder)

Fujima: Right. bye then. (I love you, you miserable fuck. Why can't I say it?)

Perfect Guy: Yeah, till then. (walks away)

Curtain closes.

Kenji Fujima's journal,

I find all efforts futile the moment I've been made helpless by the rash circumstances this daily life thrusts upon me. Lauded as I am, I could damn well thrash all the hackneyed credits piled upon me and live as carefree as a queer skylark exploring past the confines of abject morality, if you know what I mean. But then, I'm the champion of everything that goes as a furor among the youth of modern age and owing to that plight, I should as well curb the novelty and indecency of my ideas for the sake of attending to my responsibilities as the 95 perfect teenage guy. First, there's the indelible fact that I'm Shoyo's ace, captain, manager, and for some reason, acting coach. Try to picture me in a single frame, sending off bellows-like wails to my slacking players and at the same time, directing the rotation of the team in both offensive and defensive ends, all the dirty works. Pretty tough, huh? Then there comes the whimsy issue of rivalry, of who's better than who, who makes a shit out of who, who's included in the mythical five of Kanagawa, and so on; one that requires high maintenance if you don't want to get left behind by your peers. There are also those that you can't do high school life without. Academics for one, and fad for another. And of course, there's romance. Nobody wants to be the last person on Earth without a partner. Yes, right now, that's my priority.

Looking for a perfect guy is like many things; Plucking up a women's mag from a newsstand, playing a deck of cards, judging a beauty pageant, writing a novel. If anything, it's even like skydiving; plunging in horrendous vastness with the world before you and aiming straight for the mark. Stray a little from the target and you're off course, completely denied of the reward. Yeah, you can easily equate the quest for the perfect boy to any systematic or even random routine you find yourself into and formulate an award winning analogy for the writer's guild. It's that simple. In my case, I find the equilibrium between the search (for the perfect guy) and looking for the best vegetable perfect. Funny? Here's how it is:

Vegetables are perishable goods, before they expire you should go find a way to do away with them. Unfortunately for anorexics, they are also innately boring. Just think; what sort of flavor do these organisms give out when all they got in them is water? Might as well nibble on chunks of paper. Picking the perfect guy is everything like picking the perfect vegetable. A vegetable that would do good in any presentation, one that would still be appealing to the appetite even if it's seasoned with sweets, chili, pepper, garlic, ketchup, salt, mustard, mayo, lemon, gravy, butter, soy sauce, fish sauce, a vegetable that would taste as good no matter how bad you cook it. Is there such a vegetable, if ever? Perhaps. But is there such a guy who would still look perfect in all kinds of attire, who would still be the most understanding person even if you lock him up in hell with its wraiths and demons, who would still be the best player in his team even if he twisted both ankles? For me, yes.

Being the almost perfect guy, it must be of course, given the status quo, out of likelihood to concede to defeat when it comes to overcoming the urges of vagaries. In my case, I've given in 2 years ago. That was when it all began; he strafed past my visual screen with an air of uninvited arrogance and took my breath away at the same point his fast-gaited steps strolled, leaving me entirely derelict and hankering for my lost composure. I myself can't see through the thick fog of my eccentricities, for some reason, he isn't even good looking. Not the type who would get offers from commercial agencies, just the typical lot you see around the campus area or the park or fast food...whatever, wherever. But he IS perfect. And for that, the offing I've long portended and prepared for myself deviated from its road and perhaps, even from worldly aspirations. So thanks to Shinichi Maki for taking my breath away that beautiful May morning 2 years ago.

It must have been a real blessing, though, to go side by side with Maki on a day to day labor, juxtaposed in an orderly manner of sizing up well bred talents. It keeps our names together; whenever his name is mentioned, sure enough, mine would come after. Sort of like refracted echoes bouncing off the same layer of an unseen barrier, working as a one way mechanism wherein repetition is the key. Here's what I mean;

Fan no. 1: Did you see Maki do this and that?

Fan no. 2: Yeah. And Fujima, saw him do this and that?

Fan no. 3: But Maki had so and so points and so and so assissts.

Fan no. 4: Fujima had so and so points and so and so assissts, too.

Fan no. 5: This is sure win for Maki and Kainan.

Fan no. 6: No, perhaps Fujima and Shoyo can turn the tide,

Just say his name, then mine, and it never ends. Just like that. Fascinating. The only competition that's worth gloating over. Shinichi Maki and Kenji Fujima. Kenji Fujima and Shinichi Maki. Maki and Fujima. Fujima and Maki. Shinichi and Kenji. Kenji and Shinichi. Blah blah blah blah blah...

Well, time is unforgiving and nothing in its most infinitesimal unit can be redeemed by any great process of scientific innovation, much less, by a crammed plague like me. Yeah gone are the considerate chances when I can wash away Maki's nescience and fill his head with my own dreams in which he is the object of hope and despair, joy and destruction, pleasure and regret...and I, his fawning lover, his savior, his hero, his servant. Pardon me, I'm that lame in poetry. Anyway, that should at least pay for my adeptness in scripting a play. Yes, not being able to throw at Maki's feet EXACTLY what I wanted during our last parting, I immerse myself to staging a theatrical scene inside my head in which Maki and I are, well you've guessed it right, seeing each other for the last time. Here it goes,

After the last match between Shoyo and Kainan, both our last year,

Me: (with swelling eyes) Maki,

Him: (turns around) Fujima?

Me: You don't know how blessed I am to have you as my rival. (Sigh)

Him: ... (suddenly looks lonely)

Me: Well, 3 years of tight rivalry should at least come to an understanding, right?

Him: Mmmmh. (nods slightly, still looking lonely)

Me: I wanted to tell you...

Him: Yes?

Me: That you win...(you win me over! Fried fuck, why can't I say it?)

Him: ...(gives me a we-all-know-that sort of look) And?

Me: And that...I...I...

Him: You what?

Me: You...you are...the Perfect Guy.

Him: To be MVP. Thanks. (smiles and pats me shoulder)

Me: No. Not that.

Him: ...(looks questioningly at me)

Me: ...(in a chilled stupor)

Him: Fujima, what do you want to tell me? (looking perplexed)

Me: That you are the Perfect Guy,

Him: You already said that.

Me: For me.

Him: (Pauses. Looks even lonelier) You came too late.

Me: I know.

Him: I'm sorry.

Me: It's not your fault.

Him: So...,

Me: Till then, (I turn to walk away. Goodbye, my love!)

Him: (Suddenly calls to me) Fujima, I...I used to think that you were, too.

Me: (I look back, withholding tears)...why didn't you, then?

Him: You have Hanagata

Me: Never had. Never would.

Him: Goodness, (Shakes his head)

Me: You have Kiyota. (I swallow a lump)

Him: That I do.

That was that. It practically gave away the rest; his foregone availability, his potential regard for me and mostly, the chance.

I walked away, knowing that I wouldn't be called back. I might've heard him utter something along the lines of 'sorry' but when all was said and done, there was pretty much nothing left to feed on but what could've been. And what could've been is the only thing that'd refuse to happen in itself. Hence, I remain as before; alone.

END


End file.
